'So!' thought Emma, 'the kiss of the hand is explained,'--and she sighed as she thought it; nor did she much like the word _reverenced_: but she had ample amends for her mortification by what followed.

'Really,' cried Colonel Mordaunt, gazing very earnestly at her, 'I do not mean to flatter you, but there is something in your countenance that reminds me very strongly of Adeline.'

'Is it possible?' said Emma, her cheeks glowing and her eyes sparkling as she spoke: 'you may not mean to flatter me, but I a.s.sure you I am flattered; for I never saw any woman whom in appearance I so much wished to resemble.'

'You do resemble her indeed,' cried Colonel Mordaunt, 'and the likeness grows stronger and stronger.'

Emma blushed deeper and deeper.

'But come,' exclaimed he, 'let us go; and I will--no, _you_ shall--relate to the party in the next room what I have been telling you, for I long to shame those d--'

'Fye!' said Emma smiling, and holding up her hand as if to stop the coming word. And she did stop it; for Colonel Mordaunt conveyed the reproving hand to his lips; and Emma said to herself, as she half frowning withdrew it, 'I am glad my brother was not present.'

Their return to the breakfast-room was welcome to every one, from different causes, as Colonel Mordaunt's motives for requesting a tete-a-tete had given rise to various conjectures. But all conjecture was soon lost in certainty: for Emma Douglas, with more than usual animation of voice and countenance, related what Colonel Mordaunt had authorized her to relate; and the envious sisters heard, with increased resentment, that Adeline, were she unmarried, would be the choice of the man whose affections they were eagerly endeavouring to captivate.

'You can't think,' said Colonel Mordaunt, when Emma had concluded, leaving him charmed with the manner in which she had told his story, and with the generous triumph which sparkled in her eyes at being able to exhibit Adeline's character in so favourable a point of view, 'you can't think how much Miss Douglas reminds me of Mrs Berrendale!'

'Lord!' said Miss Maynard with a toss of the head, 'my brother told us that she was handsome!'

'And so she is,' replied the colonel, provoked at this brutal speech: 'she has one of the finest countenances that I ever saw,--a countenance never distorted by those feelings of envy, and expressions of spite, which so often disfigure some women,--converting even a beauty into a fiend; and in this respect no one will doubt that Miss Douglas resembles her:

'What's female beauty--but an air divine, Thro' which the mind's all gentle graces shine?'

says one of our first poets: therefore, in Dr Young's opinion, madam,'

continued Mordaunt, turning to Emma, 'you would have been a perfect beauty.'

This speech, so truly gratifying to the amiable girl to whom it was addressed, was a dagger in the heart of both the sisters. Nor was Emma's pleasure unalloyed by pain; for she feared that Mordaunt's attentions might become dangerous to her peace of mind, as she could not disguise to herself, that his visits at Mr Maynard's had been the chief cause of her reluctance to return to Scotland whenever their journey home was mentioned. For, always humble in her ideas of her own charms, Emma Douglas could not believe that Mordaunt would ever entertain any feeling for her at all resembling love, except when he fancied that she looked like Adeline.

But however unlikely it seemed that Mordaunt should become attached to her, and however resolved she was to avoid his society, certain it is that he soon found he could be happy in the society of no other woman, since to no other could he talk on the subject nearest his heart; and Emma, though blaming herself daily for her temerity, could not refuse to receive Mordaunt's visits: and her patient attention to his conversation, of which Adeline was commonly the theme, seemed to have a salutary effect on his wounded feelings.

But the time for their departure arrived, much to the joy of Mrs Wallington and her sister, who hoped when Emma was gone to have a chance of being noticed by Mordaunt.

What then must have been their confusion and disappointment, when Colonel Mordaunt begged to be allowed to attend the Douglases on their journey home, as he had never seen the Highlands, and wished to see them in such good company! Major Douglas and his charming wife gave a glad consent to this proposal: but Emma Douglas heard it with more alarm than pleasure; for, though her heart rejoiced at it, her reason condemned it.

A few days, however, convinced her apprehensive delicacy, that, if she loved Colonel Mordaunt, it was not without hope of a return.

Colonel Mordaunt declared that every day seemed to increase her resemblance to Adeline in expression and manner; and in conduct his reason told him that she was her superior; nor could he for a moment hesitate to prefer as a wife, Emma Douglas who had never erred, to Adeline who had.

Colonel Mordaunt felt, to borrow the words of a celebrated female writer,[1] that 'though it is possible to love and esteem a woman who has expiated the faults of her youth by a sincere repentance; and though before G.o.d and man her errors may be obliterated; still there exists one being in whose eyes she can never hope to efface them, and that is her lover or her husband.' He felt that no man of acute sensibility can be happy with a woman whose recollections are not pure: she must necessarily be jealous of the opinion which he entertains of her; and he must be often afraid of speaking, lest he utter a sentiment that may wound and mortify her. Besides, he was, on just grounds, more desirous of marrying a woman whom he 'admired, than one whom he forgave;' and therefore, while he addressed Emma, he no longer regretted Adeline.

1: Madame de Stael, _Recueil de Morceaux detaches_, page 208.

In short, he at length ceased to talk of Emma's resemblance to Adeline, but seemed to admire her wholly for her own sake; and having avowed his attachment, and been a.s.sured of Emma's in return, by Major Douglas, he came back to England in the ensuing autumn, the happy husband of one of the best of women.

CHAPTER XXV

We left Adeline preparing to address Mrs Mowbray and recommend her child to her protection:--but being deeply impressed with the importance of the task which she was about to undertake, she timidly put it off from day to day; and having convinced herself that it was her duty to endeavour to excite her husband to repentance, and make him acknowledge Editha as his legitimate child, she determined to write to him before she addressed her mother, and also to bid a last farewell to Colonel Mordaunt, whose respectful attachment had soothed some of the pangs which consciousness of her past follies had inflicted, and whose active friendship deserved her warmest acknowledgment. Little did she think the fatal effect which one instance of his friendly zeal in her cause had had on Berrendale; unconscious was she that the husband, whose neglect she believed to be intentional, great as were his crimes against her, was not guilty of the additional crime of suffering her to pine in poverty without making a single inquiry concerning her, but was convinced that both she and her child were no longer in existence.

In her letter to him, she conjured him by the love which he _always_ bore Glenmurray, by the love he _once_ bore her, and by the remorse which he would sooner or later feel for his conduct towards her and her child, to acknowledge Editha to be his lawful heir, but to suffer her to remain under that protection to which she meant to bequeath her; and on these conditions she left him her blessing and her pardon.

The letter to Colonel Mordaunt was long, and perhaps diffuse: but Adeline was jealous of his esteem, though regardless of his love; and as he had known her while acting under the influence of a fatal error of opinion, she wished to show him that on conviction she had abandoned her former way of thinking, and was candid enough to own that she had been wrong.

'You, no doubt,' she said, 'are well acquainted with the arguments urged by different writers in favour of marriage. I shall therefore only mention the argument which carried at length full conviction to _my_ mind, and conquered even my deep and heartfelt reverence for the opinions of one who long was, and ever will be, the dearest object of my love and regret. But _he_, had he lived, would I am sure have altered his sentiments; and had he been a parent, the argument I allude to, as it is founded on a consideration of the interest of children, would have found its way to his reason, through his affections.

'It is evident that on the education given to children must depend the welfare of the community; and, consequently, that whatever is likely to induce parents to neglect the education of their children must be _hurtful_ to the welfare of the community. It is also certain, that though the agency of the _pa.s.sions_ be necessary to the existence of all society, it is on the cultivation and influence of the _affections_ that the happiness and improvement of social life depend.

'Hence it follows that marriage must be more beneficial to society in its consequences, than connexions capable of being dissolved at pleasure; because it has a tendency to call forth and exercise the affections, and control the pa.s.sions. It has been said, that, were we free to dissolve at will a connexion formed by love, we should not wish to do it, as constancy is natural to us, and there is in all of us a tendency to form an exclusive attachment. But though I believe, from my own experience, that the few are capable of unforced constancy, and could love for life one dear and honoured object, still I believe that the many are given to the love of change;--that, in men especially, a new object can excite new pa.s.sion; and, judging from the increasing depravity of both s.e.xes, in spite of existing laws, and in defiance of shame,--I am convinced, that if the ties of marriage were dissolved, or it were no longer to be judged infamous to act in contempt of them, unbridled licentiousness would soon be in general practice. What, then, in such a state of society, would be the fate of the children born in it?--What would their education be? Parents continually engrossed in the enervating but delightful egotism of a new and happy love, lost in selfish indulgence, the pa.s.sions awake, but the affections slumbering, and the sacred ties of parental feeling not having time nor opportunity to fasten on the heart,--their offspring would either die the victims of neglect, and the very existence of the human race be threatened; or, without morals or instruction, they would grow up to scourge the world by their vices, till the whole fabric of civilized society was gradually destroyed.

'On this ground, therefore, this strong ground, I venture to build my present opinion, that marriage is a wise and ought to be a sacred inst.i.tution; and I bitterly regret the hour when, with the hasty and immature judgment of eighteen, and with a degree of presumption scarcely pardonable at any time of life, I dared to think and act contrary to this opinion and the reverend experience of ages, and became in the eyes of the world an example of vice, when I believed myself the champion of virtue.'

She then went on to express the following sentiments. 'You will think, perhaps, that I ought to struggle against the weakness which is hurrying me to the grave, and live for the sake of my child.--Alas! it is for her sake that I most wish to die.

'There are two ways in which a mother can be of use to her daughter: the one is by instilling into her mind virtuous principles, and by setting her a virtuous example: the other is, by being to her in her own person an awful warning, a melancholy proof of the dangers which attend a deviation from the path of virtue. But, oh! how jealous must a mother be of her child's esteem and veneration! and how could she bear to humble herself in the eyes of the beloved object, by avowing that she had committed crimes against society, however atoned for by penitence and sorrow! I can never, now, be a correct example for my Editha, nor could I endure to live to be a warning to her.--Nay, if I lived, I should be most probably a dangerous example to her; for I should be (on my death-bed I think I may be allowed the boast) respected and esteemed; while the society around me would forget my past errors, in the sincerity of my repentance.

'If then a strong temptation should a.s.sail my child, might she not yield to it from an idea that "one false step may be retrieved," and cite her mother as an example of this truth? while, unconscious of the many secret heart-aches of that repentant mother, unconscious of the sorrows and degradations she had experienced, she regarded nothing but the present respectability of her mother's life, and contented herself with hoping one day to resemble her.

'Believe me, that were it possible for me to choose between life and death, for my child's sake, the choice would be the latter. Now, when she shall see in my mournful and eventful history, written as it has been by me in moments of melancholy leisure, that all my sorrows were consequent on one presumptuous error of judgment in early youth, and shall see a long and minute detail of the secret agonies which I have endured, those agonies wearing away my existence, and ultimately hurrying me to an untimely grave; she will learn that the woman who feels justly, yet has been led even into the practice of vice, however she may be forgiven by others, can never forgive herself; and though she may dare to lift an eye of hope to that Being who promises pardon on repentance, she will still recollect with anguish the fair and glorious course which she might have run: and that, instead of humbly imploring forbearance and forgiveness, she might have demanded universal respect and esteem.

'True it is, that I did not act in defiance of the world's opinion, from any depraved feeling, or vicious inclinations: but the world could not be expected to believe this, since motives are known only to our own hearts, and the great Searcher of hearts: therefore, as far as example goes, I was as great a stumbling-block to others as if the life I led had been owing to the influence of lawless desires; and society was right in making, and in seeing, no distinction between me and any other woman living in an unsanctioned connexion.

'But methinks I hear you say, that Editha might never be informed of my past errors. Alas! wretched must that woman be whose happiness and respectability depend on the secrecy of others! Besides, did I not think the concealment of crime in itself a crime, how could I know an hour of peace while I reflected that a moment's malice, or inadvertency, in one of Editha's companions might cause her to blush at her mother's disgrace?--that, while her young cheek was flushed perhaps with the artless triumphs of beauty, talent, and virtue, the parent who envied me, or the daughter who envied her might suddenly convert her joy into anguish and mortification, by artfully informing her, with feigned pity for my sorrows and admiration of my penitence, that I had once been a _disgrace_ to that family of which I was now the pride?--No--even if I were not for ever separated in this world from the only man whom I ever loved with pa.s.sionate and well-founded affection, united for life to the object of my just aversion, and were I not conscious (horrible and overwhelming thought!) of having by my example led another into the path of sin,--still, I repeat it, for my child's sake I should wish to die, and should consider, not early death, but lengthened existence, as a curse.'

So Adeline reasoned and felt in her moments of reflection: but the heart had sometimes dominion over her; and as she gazed on Editha, and thought that Mrs Mowbray might be induced to receive her again to her favour, she wished even on any terms to have her life prolonged.

CHAPTER XXVI

Having finished her letter to Colonel Mordaunt and Berrendale, she again prepared to write to her mother; a few transient fears overcoming every now and then those hopes of success in her application, which, till she took up her pen, she had so warmly encouraged.

Alas! little did she know how erroneously for years she had judged of Mrs Mowbray. Little did she suspect that her mother had long forgiven her; had pined after her; had sought, though in vain, to procure intelligence of her; and was then wearing away her existence in solitary woe, a prey to self-reproach, and to the corroding fear that her daughter, made desperate by her renunciation of her, had, on the death of Glenmurray, plunged into a life of shame, or sunk, broken-hearted, into the grave! for not one of Adeline's letters had ever reached Mrs Mowbray; and the mother and daughter had both been the victims of female treachery and jealousy.

Mrs Mowbray, as soon as she had parted with Adeline for the last time, had dismissed all her old servants, the witnesses of her sorrows and disgrace, and retired to her estate in c.u.mberland,--an estate where Adeline had first seen the light, and where Mrs Mowbray had first experienced the transport of a mother. This spot was therefore ill calculated to banish Adeline from her mother's thoughts, and to continue her seclusion from her affections.

On the contrary, her image haunted Mrs Mowbray:--whithersoever she went, she still saw her in an att.i.tude of supplication; she still heard the plaintive accents of her voice;--and often did she exclaim, 'My child, my child! wretch that I am! must I never see thee more!'

These ideas increased to so painful a degree, that, finding her solitude insupportable, she invited an orphan relation in narrow circ.u.mstances to take up her abode with her.

This young woman, whose ruling pa.s.sion was avarice, and whose greatest talent was cunning, resolved to spare no pains to keep the situation which she had gained, even to the exclusion of Adeline, should Mrs Mowbray be weak enough to receive her again. She therefore intercepted all the letters which were in or like Adeline's hand-writing; and having learnt to imitate Mrs Mowbray's, she enclosed them in a blank cover to Adeline, who, thinking the direction was written in her mother's hand, desisted, as the artful girl expected she would do, from what appeared to her a hopeless application.

And she exulted in her contrivance;--when Mrs Mowbray, on seeing in a magazine that Glenmurray was dead, (full a year after his decease,) bursting into a pa.s.sion of tears, protested that she would instantly invite Adeline to her house.

'Yes,' cried she, 'I can do so without infringement of my oath.--She is disgraced in the eye of the world by her connexion with Glenmurray, and she is wretched in love; nay, more so, perhaps, than I have been; and I can, I will invite her to lose the remembrance of her misfortunes in my love!'